


Pretty much okey-dokey

by notnatural



Category: IT (2017), IT - Stephen King
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Implied Relationships, Slice of Life, what is this who knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-14
Updated: 2018-02-14
Packaged: 2019-03-18 08:15:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13677798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notnatural/pseuds/notnatural
Summary: "You gotta feel it. Don't you feel it?" Richie drawled, circling his hips in a way that made Beverly blush and turn her head. Eddie scoffed."Feel what, trashmouth." But his cheeks were red as well, far too rosy and skin-deep to be from the sun. Richie grinned at him, lazily and the sun shone off his glasses."Rock'n'roll, Eddie, baby."





	Pretty much okey-dokey

 

"There was a power in that music, a power which seemed to most rightfully belong to all the skinny kids, fat kids, ugly kids, shy kids - the world's losers, in short."

\- Stephen King,  _IT_

 

 

It was warm - not the crushing kind of heat that Derry only got in bouts of two or three weeks at a time; the kind that sat, heavy and wet on your eyelids and crept into the tight crooks of your body to coat them in sweat, made you peel sweat-soaked cotton off of your back. Not the fresh, flowing kind that came in with the spring breeze either - it didn't simmer in the roots of your hair, or blow up your shirt, tickling.

But it was warm - it felt alive and nourishing. And in the Barrens, where the underbrush and the swamp and the alien-white strands of bamboo blanketed their clubhouse and its surrounding territory in soft silence, the Losers felt warm - not safe, never quite safe, but content enough to make their own noise. Richie Tozier arrived later than the others, his forehead shining faintly.

"Mowed some lawns," he said when no one asked about his late arrival or the sweat on his brow. "Making money." He winked at Beverly, who flipped him off. "Like a man."

Beverly, Stan, Bill and Mike were sitting together in the sun, in various states of recline. Stan next to Bill with his bird-book in his lap, Beverly and Mike stretching out on their backs. Behind them, in the shade, Ben and Eddie sat with their backs to a dead tree trunk and a stack of Archie comics - Mike's, actually - in between them. Richie was standing at the mouth of the path leading out and up to Kansas street, hands on his hips.

"Well," he said, the twang of his voice cutting through the softness of the air. "Well, well, ain't'ya a sorry fackin' sight to see." Eddie didn't recognize the voice. "How bout we cheer you up, hm? With some tunes, hmm?" Mike hummed, happily and Beverly craned her neck to look Richie's way.

"Did you bring a tape?" She asked. She didn't listen to a lot of music lately - she'd recently accidentally broken her headphones and

_(it was not the sort of thing she could tell her father, god no)_

was still saving up to buy new ones

_(secretly)_

\- but she liked it when Richie talked about music. Like when Mike talked about it, like Ben, drawing blue-prints in the swampy sand or Bill on his bike. Richie would get bright-eyed and loose-limbed and almost like an adult - in a good way. Not like a child being almost like an adult when he has to go to his brother's funeral or when pictures move or when the dead won't stay dead

_(orange lights, pompoms, in the distance)_

but in the good way. Like Richie Tozier and his music.

"'Fraid not, baby doll." Richie said, wrenching his bag off and fished something out of it before letting it drop to the ground. He held the little silver radio up over his head and Mike whooped, Bill groaned, good-natured. Richie shot a swooping glance over all of them as he slung the strap of it over a low-hanging branch, angling it to make sure the silvery reflection of the sun didn't get in anyone's eyes. Bill gave him a thankful smile as they turned around to face Richie, letting the sun bake on their necks.

Richie switched it on and tuned to find the signal. The others settled back into what they were doing before, murmuring conversation, leafing through pages of illustrations and sun-faded comic books until a voice cut through the static, jaunty and smooth and young-man-fresh. "-a tune for your tuesday turmoil! Next up, a-" The static ruined the end of the deejay's introduction but when Richie got it back on the right wave, a song Eddie didn't know started rolling from the scratchy speakers. Richie groaned happily.

"Who's that?" Eddie asked, not bothered, momentarily, at the prospect of sounding stupid.

"Little Richard." Mike answered, looking effortlessly cool where he was lying stretched out in the sun, smiling at Richie who'd started to sway side to side. "He's not bad."

"My mom won't let me listen to him," Ben said and it made Eddie feel a little better. "Says he's bad news. That he's-"

"He's black." Mike smiled, ruefully. "That's fine. White people get scared when black people are successful." Stan arched and eyebrow, closing his bird book.

"Richie's parents are catholic, how come he - _what_ is he doing."

Stan sounded exasperated and it made the other's laugh, looking back at Richie.

"I think he's dancing." Ben said.

"Trying to dance." Beverly corrected - Eddie laughed at that, but his eyes were sharp, stuck to Richie's skinny, scabby limbs that looked weirdly comfortable in the flow of the music, in the center of attention. Mike barked a laugh as well, head thrown back, just as Richie started doing a weird little shoulder wiggle that only Mike and Beverly knew was called the "shimmy" to where they were sitting in the sun.

"You losers," Richie said, body rolling, "wouldn't know dancing if it pelvic thrusted you out of the water." Bill and Beverly laughed, scandalized, but Stan and Mike looked unimpressed. Mike muttered something under his breath that would've been a real Good One in a crowd with less white kids.

"You gotta feel it. Don't you feel it?" Richie drawled, circling his hips in a way that made Beverly blush and turn her head. Eddie scoffed.

"Feel what, trashmouth." But his cheeks were red as well, far too rosy and skin-deep to be from the sun. Richie grinned at him, lazily and the sun shone off his glasses.

"Rock'n'roll, Eddie, baby." Eddie looked down and away, blushing furiously. Ben looked at him and Bill looked at Beverly and they both looked at Richie, wondering. "It's good for you." Richie continued as Little Richard sang something about _long tall sally,_ something with a rolling piano and brass instruments. "Tell your mom I said so, she'll listen to me." The laughter mingled with the upbeat rock coming from the little silver radio. Richie side-stepped his way closer to Eddie who squeaked, crawled away from his grabby hands.

"I'll dance with you -

_(far away from Derry)_

\- in _hell_ , dickbag!" He said, one arm warding off in front of him. There was a shine to his eyes that only Ben understood. Maybe Bill too, if he had looked. Maybe Richie too, if the sun hadn't been in his eyes.

Mike got to his feet and on the way hooked a hand under Bev’s arm so she stood up with him. He held one of her hands loosely in his, barely even holding on when he started to sway to the music. Bev laughed, reluctantly self-conscious.

“Don’t expect to be impressed.”

“I expect nothing. Can’t let him have all the fun, though.”

Mike and Beverly started dancing, sort of bopping to the rhythm of the song at first. They held on loosely with one hand , spun away from each other and then back together again. Richie watched, grinning and broke in from time to twirl Beverly under his arm - hands twitching to do the same with Mike, settling on mirroring his sliding feet, snapping fingers.

The other four looked on and it was uncertain what the flush in their cheeks meant - discomfort with the dust kicked up in front of them from turning heels and twisting foot soles. Or maybe they wished to join but was afraid of sweat stains, of asthma attacks - maybe the sight of skin, white, brown, soft skin, under shirts, over jeans, sweat slicked and glistening made something stick in their throat, sickly sweet. But there was a haze, sort of, over them - as the radio station peddled through new releases and re-runs, they sat or stood or danced, content in their own noise, in the bubbling heat of the Barrens.

They were not safe. But warm. But okay.

**Author's Note:**

> me: just wanna write a chill, warm, coming-of-age slice-of-life thing with no dead children or pennywhomthefucker  
> also me: child death?? major trauma??? some internalized homophobia too yeahs ure HW Y NOT  
> when that's said @stephen king did you know it's possible to write about sexual awakening without making wildly misogynistic child pornography like. did you know that. do you want me to show you how.


End file.
